


Echoes in a Lovers' Execution

by dagas isa (dagas_isa)



Series: Good, Dirty Fun [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Bloodplay, Community: kink_bingo, Deathfic, F/M, Knifeplay, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-18
Updated: 2010-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dagas_isa/pseuds/dagas%20isa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those memories cannot be separated from this moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes in a Lovers' Execution

The ritual echoes.

It harkens to rough, beautiful nights in the chambers. The law discourages—though does not forbid—the personal consort between judge magisters, and so their liaisons happen discreetly in hushed tone, yet they happen. If their protection and nurturing of the Lord Larsa has gone unnoticed then there is also time, here and there, for a few indulgences.

Their armor stays on—not hauberks, cuisses and gauntlets piled indistinguishably at the foot of the bed, letting the candles reflect on their polished surfaces. The tool is a sword, not the delicately forged silver and gold dagger they usually use. The objective is different—opposite—from their normal encounters. Two become one by subtraction, not addition.

This is huge but hollow. The wrongness of this ritual, the pure arbitrariness and inevitability of it cannot carry the same meaning as those smaller days. There is no love, or rush, or pain that shall be shared between them and built into mutual pleasure as the flow ebbs. The blood that emerges will not be stopped except alongside her heart.

Big death. Not little death. The difference and connection ring throughout their muscles at this moment.

Tenderness remains. Not the soft caresses of an ornamental blade against Drace's breasts, the teasing banter—"We both know that I endure this treatment simply because you lack the personal fortitude"—or the lips that catch the blood that collects—no one's lips shall collect the blood that will fall. This is not the tenderness of lovers, of the few red finger prints where a hand has brought a face down for a kiss. This is the tenderness of last words and gentle irony of how she shall end.

It echoes, painfully. Perversely.

The gods forbid that she be desecrated. She shall have an imperial funeral—suitable to one who has served the Empire with true faithfulness. He shall not wrap her body—cooled slightly from the loss of blood—in his cape and stay with her until she warms and pinkness returns to her pale skin. There was no sharing of bodies before this horrible morning, and none will occur after. Yet, those memories cannot be separated from this moment.

It is those memories that cause a shiver to rise in their spines. _This is what we had. This is what we shared._

"Do it. I care not."

The temptation remains to linger, to defy and have one last lover's show, witnessed by others and yet known only to them. Yet, to draw it out, knowing how this one shall end, will pollute the times that have brought them a brittle joy.

"Pray me quick."

May the gods forgive them this fleeting tragedy. May the gods make all the beauty that came before eternal in their memories.

The sword slides in too sensually once it cuts through her mythrilline breastplate. The tang of steel deep below skin is just too similar to that dagger skimming just under the surface for comfort. The thick moisture that wells and the stain that remains invisible from the outside are eons different from those few sensual beads he's drawn from her before, yet entirely the same.

They stay together until she expires.

The echoes shall follow them both to the grave.


End file.
